


Five (Well, Four) Times Alan's Attempts to Pick Up Women were Ruined by Denny Crane

by the_wordbutler



Category: Boston Legal
Genre: Gen, but an epic bromance, not really slash, or bromarriage as the case may be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lou is a dancer, or something like it. Leticia is Spanish and has a beautiful mouth. Stacey is their plush-thighed neighbor. The woman in the bar is nearly predatory.</p>
<p>And Alan sleeps with exactly none of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five (Well, Four) Times Alan's Attempts to Pick Up Women were Ruined by Denny Crane

**One Month after Nimmo Bay**

“So, Lucy – it was Lucy, wasn’t it?”

“Just Lou.”

“Ah, yes, Lou. What is it that you do for a living?”

Alan counts himself as very good at remembering names, but tonight, he’s not on his so-called “A-Game.” Lucy-Lou – no, just Lou, how forgetful of him – doesn’t seem to notice, though, and flicks very pretty, very blonde hair behind her very pretty, very slender shoulder as she reaches for her glass of chardonnay. The cheap stuff, so he predicts she’s a preschool teacher or a secretary, something that doesn’t break forty grand a year, but that’s all right; as he’s already observed, she’s very, very pretty.

And not the brightest bulb in the janitorial closet, because she doesn’t seem to notice that he keeps canceling calls on his cell phone. 

“I teach yoga and dance at a private high school,” Lou says, and ah, there’s that hair again. 

Alan praises himself. He was close. “Dance and yoga. I suppose that means you’re rather…” He glances down, at her long, lean legs and slender hips. “…flexible.”

Lou giggles. Proof he has her in his clutches. Another hair flick, and she’ll be his. Not his usual fare, mind you – he likes to be able to have a conversation in which his sexually-charged banter doesn’t immediately lead to school girl giggles – but for a one night stand, he supposes that this isn’t necessarily a bad choice. There are worse ways to go than pretty, pretty yoga-and-dance instructors.

“Bartender,” and he raises his hand, “I believe the lady would like a – “

“Denny Crane.”

Alan nearly falls off his stool, though he hides it behind a tight smile and a bewildered look, because there is Denny Crane, standing next to his stool and offering a hand to Lou. Lou smiles and takes it, and – 

“You’re very pretty. Do you mind me telling you that? I don’t usually come up to women and tell them how very beautiful they are, but tonight, I’ll make an exception to the – “

“Denny, funny meeting you here.” Alan takes his shoulder. Squeezes his shoulder. He has an advantage, being on the stool and all. Lou probably doesn’t even notice that he’s manhandling this stranger. “Can I help you, or did you get lost on your way home again?”

Denny glances over. “I’ve been trying to call you. When your phone wouldn’t pick up, I figured I’d look for you here. There’s only so many places you go.” To Lou, “He’s a creature of habit. Like a wildebeest. You ever hunt wildebeests? Fascinating creatures. Sneaky, predictable. Like democrats.”

Lou giggles for Denny. For _Denny_. “Well, you found me. Was it important? Did you set something on fire? Because if you didn’t, I think you’d be better served at home, in bed, while I continue to entertain this lovely – “

“You drove,” Denny interrupts. “How can I get home if you drove?”

“Ah, of course. If only there were yellow cars that darted around the city, taking people to their desired locations. Wait, I think there are.”

“Are you suggesting I take a _cab_?” Denny’s face fills with horror. “The last time I did that, it was 1987. They couldn’t break a hundred.” Again to Lou, “I had to give the cabby a seventy-five dollar tip because the most change he could give me back was two fives. Two fives! Like people don’t generally travel with hundred-dollar bills anymore!”

“Cabs now take plastic.” Alan slides off his stool. “Come, I’ll take you to the cab and pay him myself. Excuse me for a moment, Lou, and order yourself another drink on my tab. I’ll be right back.”

Lou smiles sweetly. “You carpool together?” she asks. The hair again. Be still his heart, even if this evening goes poorly, Alan will have the hair to remember for months. 

“Yes,” Alan says in the same instant that Denny says, “We live together.”

“Oh. Like roommates?”

“Actually,” and Denny leans on the bar, elbow there, like he’s about to tell a story that will have Lou riveted for months on end, “he’s my husband. But only for the money. Not for the sex. Though if you’d like to compare, we can arrange – “

“Come now, Denny. We can’t be late to get you home. You’ll miss _Grey’s Anatomy_.” 

Alan drags Denny off. It takes twenty minutes to get him into a cab that doesn’t _smell like immigrants_. 

When he comes back, of course, Lou is gone. 

 

**Three Months after Nimmo Bay**

“Have you ever been married?”

Her name is Leticia. She’s _Spanish_ , and every word rolls off her tongue like dew drops off a fresh-picked jalapeño pepper or some other simile that is both as sexy and as culturally insensitive. He’s never been one for ethnic women, but Alan can’t resist the tanned skin and the slinky little red thing she’s wearing. Plus, she’s doing all the talking. He takes that as a good sign.

More things she can do with her mouth. 

“For love or some other reason?” he asks, sipping his vodka and watching her. 

“Is there a difference?” And oh! The way she takes that olive off the little toothpick in her martini. Yes, there are many things she can do with that mouth. 

“Oh, I don’t know. I married the first time because I was young and believed in the power and beauty of love. The second time is…less sentimental and paints me in a rather poor light with most women.”

“Really.” Leticia leans in. They’re sharing a sofa. She’s close enough that he can smell her, and lord, women use the most scintillating shampoos these days. “Do tell.”

“Money,” he answers, almost-shrugging. “Spousal privilege. Power of attorney and medical proxy. And perhaps a tiny twist of love in there somewhere, but not the kind of love the poets once waxed sentimental about.”

“If it was for those reasons, why did it end?” she asks, raising one perfect, dark eyebrow. 

“It didn’t,” Alan answers, and when he gets up to use the toilet, he comes back to an empty couch.

 

**Eight Months after Nimmo Bay**

“Just down the hall and to your left,” he calls out, watching Stacey – oh, _Stacey_ , the dark-haired vixen of his dreams and their new neighbor, to boot – wander out of the living room and disappear from view. Stacey has very long legs and a very short skirt. She’s a publishing professional, which Alan thinks means _glorified editor_ , but she came in for a nightcap and now is on her third. The stereo pipes out low tunes, jazzy, bluesy, unnamed things (he certainly didn’t buy the CD), and he thinks that if he turns the lights down low, he’ll have a chance of showing Stacey just how plush and inviting the couch really is.

And oh, plush and inviting are words that come to mind when thinking of her thighs, too. She’s not one of those shapeless, lean women. She has hips, thighs, breasts, and they all work together in perfect harmony to – 

“ _Ohmygod_!”

“Denny Crane!”

There’s a crash and a ruckus and then the thunder of feet on wood flooring, and Alan makes it to the hallway just in time to see Stacey shielding her eyes and Denny standing in the doorway to the bathroom, wearing only what God provided to him.

“There’s – there’s a naked man in your bathroom!” Stacey stammers. Apparently, _glorified editors_ are easily startled. Who knew?

“Ah, yes. Stacey from Suite L, meet Denny Crane, my poorly-clothed cohabitant.”

“Denny Crane,” and there he is, stepping towards Stacey and extending a hand. What a good sport. “Suite L, right? Dirty old bird used to live there. She wanted me.”

“And even if she hadn’t, you’d assure both of us otherwise.” Alan steers Denny away. “Unfortunately, Stacey and I were having a lovely evening. Why don’t you head to bed and I’ll make sure to tell you the entire story in the morning? Perhaps after you recall that you do have your own bathroom.”

“Do I?”

Denny looks at him, and Alan sees it. The bewildered look. Uncertain, clouded, frightened. He sighs and runs his fingers along the back of Denny’s shoulders. “You do,” he reminds him gently, and can’t, for all his momentary annoyance, let go. “I’ll show you that way. Perhaps Stacey from Suite L will take a raincheck on finishing our evening at a later date.”

Stacey nods, but Alan’s wise enough to know that there will be no raincheck. 

Ah, well. 

 

**Eleven Months, Twenty-Seven Days, Eighteen Hours After Nimmo Bay**

“No, Denny, I won’t forget. For one, I picked the restaurant.” Alan smiles to himself, rolling his eyes. He catches his own expression in the reflection off the mirror behind the bar. So be it. It is just deserted enough – never mind cold enough – that no one will notice. Just another man, on the phone to someone, wishing he weren’t. 

Except for the part where he didn’t wish he wasn’t.

“I don’t understand how a man so forgetful in his own right would obsess that the person charged with not forgetting things would forget. It seems counter-intuitive that – yes, yes, I understand. But I assure you: Tuesday night, we will be at your red-state steakhouse, enjoying slabs of meat that would make Tyrannosauruses rethink their dietary preferences. Yes, Denny, I am mocking you.”

He grins to himself.

“I’ll see you when I get home, yes. You too. Good night, Denny.”

He hangs up his cell phone and slips it back into his pocket. He promised himself one drink while he went over his argument for the next morning’s case, and – 

“Sibling, parent, or child?” the woman asks. She’s tall and redheaded – a _redhead_ – and has curves that Alan is pretty sure were banned in Leviticus for being unclean. The freckles on her nose means she has freckles elsewhere. She purses her lips and waits for an answer. 

Alan smiles. “Husband, actually. Can I buy you a drink?”

There’s a moment’s pause. She smiles tightly. “You’re…joking, aren’t you?”

“Nope. My lawfully-wedded husband. Our one-year anniversary is on Tuesday. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. Denny Crane? No? No matter. Again, would you like me to buy you a drink? I assure you, it’s for no reason other than getting into your lovely, form-fitting pants.”

The woman looks at him for about ten more seconds before she walks away. 

No loss. He does have that argument to read over. 

 

**One Year, One Day after Nimmo Bay**

“Denny, something occurred to me a few nights ago. Something strange, confusing, and, I think, slightly horrifying.”

Their apartment has a balcony. At least, Alan calls it a balcony. It’s more a door outside of the living room that leads to a small slab of concrete with a half-hearted view of the city, but he can pretend it’s a balcony for no other reason than they’ve put plastic furniture out on it and keep a small liquor cabinet near the plastic furniture for easy, alcoholic access. And they smoke on it, too, cigars that are slightly lesser in quality now that they’ve opened the new firm and it sucks the money out of them, at least for right now. It’ll pick up, Alan knows this, but he thinks that Denny just might die a little inside every time he sees his bank balance. 

Denny dies a little inside more often than Alan likes to consider, of course.

“I always liked horror,” Denny says, and smiles as he looks over. It’s been two good – two _very_ good – days. A man couldn’t ask for more from his anniversary week, he really couldn’t. 

“It occurred to me that, in the last year, I’ve only slept with three women, none of whom have names I can remember.” Alan flicks ash from his cigar. “I’m beginning to suspect that marriage is detrimental to my sex life.”

Denny laughs. “I could have warned you. All you had to do was ask.”

“That’s not the horrifying part,” Alan says, shaking his head. “Well, it’s one kind of horror, I suppose – the realization that I’ve given up a stretch of years in which my sexual prowess is still intact so I can be partnered with you – “

“But I’m _Denny Crane_. You’re a lucky man.”

“ – but no. The actual horror I came to know is simply how little I care.”

“About the marriage?”

“No.” He flicks his cigar again. “About the sex.”

There’s silence, or rather, as much silence as there ever is in Boston. You can’t really have silence in a city of its size, especially outside, when the sound of cars, trains, and planes fills the crisp night air. Even in the darkness, even when most of the city is asleep, there’s a kind of life thrumming within. You have to find it, but it’s there.

The analogy gets too close to comfort, though, so Alan stands. Puts out his cigar. Drains the rest of his drink. 

“I’m for bed,” he decides, and looks at Denny. Still sitting there, still smoking, still essentially (quintessentially) _Denny Crane_. “Coming?”

Denny considers it and then rises. “Absolutely,” he says, and walks in with Alan, side-by-side.


End file.
